


Refuge

by ParanoidSeat



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Cliche, Fluff, Gen, Hypothermia, Present Tense, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Snow and Ice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-05
Updated: 2010-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:55:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParanoidSeat/pseuds/ParanoidSeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her eyes are closed now; she's slipped into unconsciousness.<br/>"This is not good. This is so very very not good."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Refuge

**Author's Note:**

> Written early on in series 3, when it was still possible that Martha could get past her crush.  
> Beta'd by ponygirl72 and bytheseaside.

The door bangs open, snow swirling through the doorway and chasing his feet as he bursts in. He turns to get a firmer grip on her two hands and pulls her inside. She's past shivering now; she hasn't enough energy left. She stumbles, almost sinks to the floor the moment he shuts the door, shutting out the blizzard. He catches her just in time, and manoeuvres her to the nearest chair. She huddles there, eyes only half open, frost glittering on her eyelashes and snow jewelling her dark hair. He waves a hand in front of her face but gets no response.

He looks around; it's a small cottage, sparsely furnished. Fairly old-fashioned, and it should therefore have - aha, a fireplace! It's already set and ready to light, and he wonders briefly about the house's occupants as he frantically hunts for matches. Finding only an empty matchbox, he fumbles for the sonic screwdriver with half-numb fingers and uses the hyper-amplitude beam emitter setting on low focus to set fire to the kindling under the logs. He throws in a few crumpled sheets of newspaper and gives it a nudge to encourage the larger sticks to light, then turns his attention back to his companion.

She looks half dead; her skin's a funny shade of grey that can't mean anything good. Her breath mists in front of her face in worryingly small clouds, and when he feels for a pulse it's very weak. Grabbing the back of the chair, he drags it over to the hearth and positions her as close to the fire as possible. Her eyes are closed now; she's slipped into unconsciousness.

"This is not good. This is so very very _not good_."

He crouches next to her chair, pulls off her gloves, takes one ice-cold hand between both of his and rubs it vigorously, trying to restore the circulation.

"Come on, warm up - it's not that cold, is it? Actually, it is rather nippy. Oh, come on, please… I know, I know, I should've realised there was a blizzard on the way, and yes, we could've got back to the TARDIS before it hit if we'd turned back sooner." She shows no response to his words, but he keeps talking anyway. "But I had to keep us going, didn't I? Had to forge on. Had to get to the settlement before dark. Didn't make much difference in the end; proper white-out from that blizzard, eh? Couldn't even see my own hand in front of my face." He holds up a hand for her to see, that silly spark of optimism in him hoping she'll stir, open her eyes, smile. Anything.

"If I'd lost hold of your hand, even for a second…" He shivers, and he's not sure if it's the creeping cold or the thought of losing her in that storm.

"I'm just glad I looked out some halfway appropriate clothing for us from the wardrobe room," he tells her as he switches his attention to her other hand. "Well, it would've been appropriate if it the temperature hadn't dropped so fast. Or if the blizzard hadn't hit. Not to mention the extra few hours we spent looking for shelter. Won't have much luck looking for a settlement when you can't see your own feet, eh?" He smiles weakly, keeping up the chatter just in case she's listening. It's unlikely, though; she's unconscious, suffering from hypothermia and probably in danger of frostbite, and it's _all his fault_.

The fire is catching properly now, and its feeble heat is starting to radiate toward them, but it's not going to be enough. She's not close enough to the fire, he decides, and he moves her from the chair to the floor, laying her out in a comfortable position on the hearth rug and making sure she's turned towards the fire. As he does so, he realises that her clothes are rather damp from struggling through all the snow. The water has even managed to get through the thick coat she's wearing.

"You'll never get warm with damp clothes on. Might be some dry clothes somewhere…" Squeezing her shoulder briefly, he dashes from the room.

"Where are the people?" he mutters to himself as he digs around in a linen cupboard. "Feels empty, but not deserted. Maybe the owners are on holiday. Or this is where they come for a holiday…" Grabbing several blankets and a down-stuffed sleeping bag from the cupboard, he moves on to a bedroom, where a chest of drawers yields a few moth-eaten woollen jumpers, a pair of thick flannel pyjamas and a few dozen pairs of socks. "Perfect!"

He returns with this armful of fabrics and dumps it on the floor next to his unconscious companion. Kneeling next to her feet, he unlaces her boots, strips off both pairs of socks and rubs her feet like he did her hands, until they stop feeling like blocks of ice and start feeling more like feet.

"How's that, by the fire? Better?" He checks her forehead, her hands. "Definitely warmer."

Next, he methodically removes her cold, damp clothes, lays them out to dry, and replaces them with the old flannel pyjamas, making sure to put a jumper on her and at least two pairs of socks on her feet as well. As he does so, he chatters away about this and that, telling her about the snow on the planet Necros and the surprisingly snow-less Himalayas, the night he spent clinging to an iceberg in the North Atlantic and the time he went to Antarctica and almost got blown up. Once she's dressed in dry, warm clothes again, he moves her out of the way, lays down the open sleeping bag on the hearth rug, and carefully shifts her back into place, folding the sleeping bag over her and covering her with a blanket or two. Another jumper is rolled up and put under her head as a makeshift pillow - her muscles and joints will be stiff enough from the cold as it is, he doesn't want her getting a sore neck on top of everything.

"There you go. Snug as a bug in a rug."

He kneels by her head and checks her pulse and breathing. Her breath isn't as noticeable now that she's near a heat source, but there's definitely more of it than before. Her pulse is still fairly weak, but getting stronger. He sits back, hands wrapped around his ankles, and sighs, letting his chatter fade into silence. She should be fine now, so he doesn't need to keep up the external monologue that was mainly for his own benefit anyway.

Really, what had he been thinking? She's been with him a good while now, so she should be used to the idea that expeditions with him are rarely safe or uneventful - but still, this is a bit extreme. They've not even been beset by invading aliens or evil geniuses - or, as is more likely in this particular environment, Yeti - but somehow they've still ended up in life-threatening trouble. He really has to start being more careful about where he takes his companions, how well he prepares them for his various little outings, and how carefully he makes his decisions. It was sheer thoughtlessness on his part that led to this. After all, she did suggest that they turn back, several times if he remembers rightly. He just didn't listen to her, kept insisting they'd be okay, that they'd get there before nightfall, without stopping to consider all the other things that could go wrong.

"Okay, time to stop telling myself off; not very productive - and blimey is it cold!" Away from the immediate area of the fireplace, the cold is invasive, seeping into his bones. It must be colder than he'd previously thought, and the fact that the damp has made its way through his own heavy coat as well doesn't help. It makes it difficult to maintain his temperature even if he puts extra effort into it, and he doesn't want to spend all night concentrating on keeping warm.

He takes off his own boots (replacing the Converse for today because trainers just aren't practical in calf-deep snow) and peels off his socks, replacing them with dry ones from the pile of clothes on the floor. He shrugs off his heavy coat and divests himself of his jacket, tie and trousers, laying them with her clothes to dry.

"Right, jumper, nice and warm… Ah. Legs." He hops from one foot to the other, trying to push his metabolism a little faster to keep off the chill. "No trousers. Damn. And those are the only pair of pyjama bottoms, aren't they?" All he's got are his boxer shorts, and while they're still dry, they aren't particularly warm.

He could always join her in the sleeping bag. That wouldn't be such a terrible breach of boundaries, would it? No, they've shared a bed before, it won't be a big deal. His naturally lower body temperature won't affect her once he's heated up to slightly above normal, and it'll save him from exhausting himself with the effort of keeping warm using the biofeedback systems of his metabolism. Slightly overheated is definitely far preferable to chilly, and sod the boundaries.

Pulling aside the blankets and the top layer of the sleeping bag, he slips in beside her, on the far side so that she gets most of the heat from the fire which is now blazing merrily in the grate. He re-covers them both with the sleeping bag, and then, with some difficulty, manages to pull the blankets back across so that they're both snug and cosy. Ignoring boundaries completely, he snuggles up to her and puts one arm around her middle to pull her closer. He can feel the chill fading as the cocoon of fire-warmed blankets does its work, and he smiles into her hair. This is extremely comfortable, he decides.

"Now don't you go reading anything into this," he teases in a soft murmur. As she shifts against him, he can sense her rising from her state of unconsciousness to a lighter state of sleep, and he holds her close to let her know she's safe.

-  
-

When Martha wakes, everything is quiet. No soft hum of the TARDIS in the background, which immediately tells her she's slept somewhere else. Opening her eyes, she sees blankets, and beyond their frayed fringes, a fireplace with only the tiniest of embers left. Memory returns slowly, filtering through the foggy haze enveloping her brain, and she groans softly as her limbs announce their aches. As she tries to stretch, she becomes aware that she's not alone. She stiffens for a moment, before realising who it must be and relaxing again. The memory of struggling through a near-impenetrable blizzard makes its way to the forefront of her mind - no memory of arriving at a house, but she's here now - and she smiles as she works out why they're snuggled so cosily together, swaddled in blankets. The Doctor, for all his faults, really does care sometimes. Either that or he was cold too, she thinks with a fond smirk.

There's an ache in her shoulders, and she tries to stretch her arms a little before realising that one of her hands is occupied. She looks down to see his arm wrapped around her, his fingers entwined with hers and both their hands resting on her middle. A warm glow suffuses her chest as she takes in how affectionate this seems. She knows she's just his good friend and that's all, and she's all but gotten over the initial schoolgirl crush in the time she's travelled with him, but it's still nice when they get to be close like this. She thinks she'd feel the same about anyone she was good friends with; closeness and intimacy are always welcome with best friends as far as she's concerned. There's nothing romantic about it, really, so it's easy just to feel flattered that he likes her enough to snuggle up and share body heat. He'll get no complaints from her on that.

"Doctor?" she whispers. When she gets no response, she squeezes his hand a little. He grunts in his sleep. She says his name again, a bit louder, and gives the hand she's holding a little shake.

"Muh."

"Wake up."

She feels him shifting against her back, his nose nuzzling her shoulder-blade as he works his way up to consciousness, his legs moving slightly. She becomes aware of her legs beyond a vague dull ache, and feels that hers are laid out almost straight, one of his knees is between hers, and his other foot is hooked over her uppermost ankle. This tangle of legs could be considered more intimate than their relationship would suggest, but she suspects it's just arisen from sleep movements.

The hand holding hers gives it a squeeze before letting go, and she flexes her fingers experimentally. It looks good; she still has feeling, and there doesn't seem to be any sign of frostbite. Their legs detangle themselves, and the blankets move across her suddenly as the Doctor rolls away from her onto his back, pulling the top layer of coverings with him. The cold air of the room hits her and she squeals, grabbing the blankets and pulling them back. The innermost layer must be a folded sleeping bag, she deduces, because this movement rolls the Doctor back onto his side, returning him to his original position.

He makes a sleepy noise of surprise, and then chuckles.

"Am I back over here because you're cold or because you were comfy?" he asks, smirking into her shoulder.

She laughs, but it comes out quiet and breathless. Her lungs feel smaller somehow; she makes a note to research the long-term effects of extreme temperatures on bronchial passageways.

"If I said both, would you judge me?" she replies, and feels him chuckle. "What happened last night?"

His arm snakes back around her waist and she takes hold of his hand again. Their legs don't re-entangle, but his knees tuck into the hollow behind hers. He snuggles into her back as she tucks the covers back into place, and begins to explain, his voice reverberating slightly through her chest.

"You stopped speaking to me about half an hour before I found this cottage. At first I just thought you were angry with me, but then you started stumbling and falling, and I realised you were close to passing out from exhaustion. I walked into the wall of this place before I saw it -" She laughs, which ends in a small coughing fit, and he rubs her back with his other hand until she recovers.

"Thanks."

"It's probably the cold that's done that to you. Not very good for the lungs, that." He pulls her closer, holding her a little tighter for a moment in sympathy and apology, then has to blow some of her hair out of his face before he can continue. "I dragged you inside, then you collapsed. I built a fire, tried to warm your hands and feet… Your clothes were too wet to keep you warm, so I had a look around the cottage and found some clothes -"

"Hold on." Martha patted at her chest and shoulders with her free hand. "What am I wearing?"

"Flannel pyjamas. Nice ones, too. Maybe not very new, but warm and dry. Much better than what you were wearing."

She decides not to comment on the fact that he's now seen her in - she checks quickly that she's still wearing those - yep, seen her in her underwear. It'd be just a little too clichéd in this type of situation to make a big deal about something like that. It's not like she'd prefer to have died of hypothermia rather than let someone see her in her bra and pants. And hers are nice ones, anyway, so she's got nothing to worry about.

"Right. So then you did the same with you and climbed in here?"

"Kind of."

"What d'you mean, 'kind of'?"

"Well, those are the only pair of pyjamas I could find. I had to make do with just taking off what was damp."

"Which would be?"

"My jacket and trousers."

"Right, and you've got a shirt on underneath, and that would've stayed fairly dry."

"Exactly."

"And under your trousers…?"

"My boxer shorts."

"Oh. Right."

"That's partly why I had to hop in here - far too cold otherwise." He sounds fairly nonchalant about it, so she decides she will be too. "And that's the end of the story!" he declares. "Unless you want to count 'and then I laid here for a while telling myself what a stupid git I was for not listening to you and then I fell asleep', of course."

Martha doesn't say anything for a moment, enjoying the novelty of the Doctor admitting he was wrong.

"I really am sorry," he says after a few moments of silence. She squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back.

"It's okay. Besides, I bet the settlement will be just round the corner now that the blizzard's died down," she says with a laugh.

"Oh, why did you do that?" he cries suddenly, letting go of her hand and batting her on the arm. "Now that you've said that it'll be five miles away! You, Martha Jones, are a jinx, that's what you are. A jinx." He prods a finger into her side to emphasise his point, and she squirms, making a noise somewhere between a yelp and a grunt. "Oh, now, what was that?" His voice holds playful mischief that she knows all too well.

"Doctor, don't!" she says quickly, and with enough of a warning tone that he lowers his hand onto her arm and pats it reassuringly.

"Okay. No tickle-fest. I promise."

"Thank you."

"Now, d'you feel like braving the cold?" She considers, not saying anything for a moment. "Your clothes will be dry now," he offers. "And I won't look, if you like." She can hear the smirk in his voice.

"It's nothing you haven't seen already," she says with a grin.

"True. Very nice, by the way."

She chuckles softly. "Thanks."

"Now, daylight? Standing up? Actual clothes? Feel up to it?"

"Two more minutes," Martha says, snuggling backwards a bit. He laughs softly, hugging her closer with the arm around her middle and pressing his face into her shoulder.

There's something infinitely comforting about lying here with him, warm and safe. There's a real feeling of affection and caring, and in his own way, love. It might not be in the conventional sense that she's accustomed to, but it's there in some strange indefinable sense. It feels to her like something he's created himself, from his own experiences, not something he started out with in life.

Before she has a chance to think more deeply on this, the Doctor gives her one last squeeze, which she savours with a smile before he releases her and starts to get up.

They dress quickly in the freezing cold room, layering up and insulating themselves against the cold with some of the jumpers and extra socks the Doctor had found the previous night. He checks her over before they leave, and declares her a lucky escapee of hypothermia. He leaves a note and a handful of strange currency for the owners of the cottage, if they should return, and they set off for either the settlement or the TARDIS, whichever they find first.

When they find civilisation, they are informed that the particular settlement the Doctor was looking for was buried three years previously in an avalanche. The rescue party had saved as many as they could, but the buildings had been all but destroyed. This is something Martha is reluctant to let him forget on their trek back to the TARDIS.

"Well how was I supposed to know?" he asks, grasping at straws to defend himself against her only partly-serious anger.

"You're the Time Lord, Doctor!" she retorts. "Aren't you supposed to know when everything happens?"

"The big things, Martha, the big things." He twists the key in the lock and pushes the door open; she slips in ahead of him and turns to face him.

"I'd say an avalanche was pretty damn big, wouldn't you?"

"I…" She smirks at him as he stalls, then waves the argument away with a flap of his hand. "Well, anyway. Failed expedition all round, let us never speak of it again. Agreed?" They take their places at the console, he with his hands flying to the relevant controls by instinct, she fumbling to find the two switches he put her in charge of, one of which she's sure doesn't actually do anything.

"What, none of it?"

"Well, it wasn't all bad." He throws an arm around her shoulder and grins down at her. "Rather cosy, part of it."

She smiles back, resting her head momentarily on his shoulder before leaping away from the console as it sparks angrily.

"Ooh, someone's not happy," the Doctor declares, patting the TARDIS consolingly. "But aside from the nice bits, let's leave that whole trip out of conversation in future, yes?"

"Including -?"

"Yes," he snaps firmly, pointing a finger at her, suddenly defensive and no-nonsense. "Including - especially including, _specifically_ including - my question-mark boxer shorts. Got it?"

Martha giggles. "Yes, Doctor."

**Author's Note:**

> Boxer shorts borrowed with permission from Kate Orman :o)


End file.
